Whatever secret wonder may have been in the soul of Margaret Maclaren, she suffered none of it to be expressed on her face.
Isla was much pleased with her visit and with the possibilities of the house, part of which she had forgotten. She saw that her father, too, was pleased. He enjoyed his walk about the place and constantly spoke of the beautiful view from the front of the house across the moor and down to Glenogle.
"I'll take the reins down, Jamie," said Isla to the hotel groom.
When they were fairly out on the road she turned rather anxiously to her father, talking to him in a low voice which there was no possible chance of Jamie overhearing as he was rather deaf at the best of times, and was almost entirely devoid of curiosity--a trait in his character worth mentioning.
"Father, I want to tell you something. Will you mind very much if we come up to Creagh soon for the whole summer?"
"No, I think I should like it," he answered, unexpectedly. "But you would find it very dull, wouldn't you?"
"I'm never dull anywhere. You saw the folk who came yesterday--the Americans, didn't you? I saw Mr. Rosmead talking to you at the shrubbery."
"I saw them--yes. Who were they and what brought them to Achree? I don't remember having seen him before."
"You haven't seen him before. He's a stranger--a rich American, and I have let Achree to him for six months."
Her hand trembled a little on the reins, and she half-expected either a petulant outburst or some other demonstration of feeling that would vex and alarm her soul and would harm the old man. But when, made anxious by his silence, she turned to look at him, his face only wore the perplexed expression of a child's.